


Protocol

by potterandpromises



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Anxiety, Carol Preston's A+ Parenting, Christmas Isn't Canon, Common Cold, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Disordered Eating, F/M, Food, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse, Medical Procedures, Mentions of Violence, Multi, Post-Season/Series 02, Sickfic, Snarky and Soft, badthingshappenbingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23410045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potterandpromises/pseuds/potterandpromises
Summary: We’re all just making it up as we go along.
Relationships: Denise Christopher & Garcia Flynn, Denise Christopher & Lucy Preston, Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36





	Protocol

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been very strange to have started this fic in October and finished it during a pandemic. With that in mind, I honestly don’t know how some of this might read given current events, but it was very cathartic to write.
> 
> Technically not medically accurate, if only, to the best of my limited knowledge, for better equipment. I figure that’s very reasonable for a world with Time Travel.
> 
> Set sometime post Chinatown and pre Covid-19 outbreak; as always, Christmas isn’t canon.

He’s making tea— which is unprecedented.

To Denise’s knowledge, Flynn does not drink tea. But he’s never said anything against it. Perhaps she’s learned something new about him. (Like she did during her Target run after they broke him out of prison. What a diva. Or when he urged her to go home to her family in case the team failed. He’s not necessary a horrible person.) But with Lucy’s staunch absence, and Flynn’s odd affection for her, a different theory prevails.

As assumed, he walks down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. She gives him a head start, rearranging the papers on her desk for later use.

She follows at a casual, healthy distance. And he walks by Lucy’s room, turning left and opening his own door just out of Denise’s sightline. Okay then. So just where _is—_

Someone coughs, the door shuts. Never mind.

She knocks, and 15 seconds later Flynn’s head pokes out, looking ever so sincere. They both stare, neither wanting to have this conversation. She opens her mouth—

“Yes?”

“I need to talk to Lucy.”

“She’s not here.” Behind him, Lucy’s floral cardigan hangs off a worn leather chair. The chair that, when she first moved them in, had resided in the common area of the house. Flynn shifts, obstructing all opposing evidence. She wonders if vexing authority is his first instinct, or if he’s just eagerly following Lucy’s orders. “Probably still asleep.”

Another cough, stifled.

His non-reaction is almost impressive. 

“Flynn,” only now does Denise realize how tired she is, “you know as well as I do why we have this protocol.” It was night, she’d been at home, asleep. And _he’d_ found Lucy shaking, sweaty, delirious, on the bathroom floor— Jiya told her after the fact. He was the one to shout for help, about why no one had given her antibiotics. The one to say— even before it happened— that they needed to keep a first-aid kit in the lifeboat. 

(And maybe none of that means anything to him. But Denise will not make the same mistake twice.)

“I don’t believe you want her to die.” His expression grims. She’s known since the kidnapping. Killing Lucy was and certainly is, the one thing he (probably, most likely,) wouldn’t do. “So quit acting like a child and step aside.”

He regards her in a similar manner he did Lucy in a prison cell only months ago. 

She’s struck a nerve.

“Flynn, it’s fine.”

Him and Lucy exchange a quick look, and he steps back as she presents herself: week and weary, sheltered in a self-hug.

It’s not lost on her that, despite calling Flynn childish, hiding or downplaying illness and seizures and gunshot wounds has been a distinctly adult phenomenon in her life. Mark and Olivia each tried to _fake_ a cold once. She far prefers that to... whatever this is.

She can’t help but reach out, feel her undesirably warm forehead. Lucy closes her eyes at the contact.

“You know the new protocol,” Denise says softly.

(The protocol where touching the patient un-gloved, as she just did, is strongly discouraged.)

“It’s just—” She coughs into her elbow, then downwards, with increasing intensity, and is forced to support herself against the well. Flynn steps forwards, concerned, and Denise takes it as a sign she’s gotten worse. “It’s just a cold.”

Denise gentles herself. “So let me take a look at you, ask some questions…”

She knows Lucy well enough, with her self-worth issues. By the time she’s ready to ask for help, she may not be able to. (Except... possibly from _Flynn_.) Denise gives her a soft look, as if to say: 'everything will be okay,' without chance of lying. What she does say is: “this is important."

Lucy’s defenses dissolve, her body wilting. She breathes in. "Okay."

Denise retrieves a now well supplied med-kit from another room. Flynn stands in the corner, arms crossed, expression inscrutable. Lucy sits on the bed, his bed, fidgeting with the seem of a blanket draped haphazardly over her lap. “Do you want him to leave? Or do this somewhere else?” she asks quietly.

Without hesitation, Lucy shakes her head.

Denise bites her tongue and gets to work, putting on a disposable mask and gloves. She asks questions without many helpful answers, and Lucy allows her to touch and use a stethoscope, tilting forwards or backwards to accommodate. Denise is often interrupted by her coughing, despite clear attempts to suppress it. Lucy’s attention regularly drifts past Denise, but she doesn’t check to see if Flynn’s up to anything, even though he can— she’s disappointed to say— sneak up on her.

The thermometer beeps, 101. Murmuring the result to Lucy, she strengthens up, right into Flynn’s chest.

Jaw tight, expression neutral, she decides he gets one more chance to behave. She turns to face him, aware of Lucy at her back. “I need space to work.” 

He only takes his eyes off Lucy when she speaks, almost startled. And to her near shock, he obeys, be it with equal annoyance and distrust as she feels for him.

“Lucy, I want to do a blood test. Is that acceptable to you?” 

Her focus instantly snaps to Denise. “Isn’t that a little excessive?”

“Haven’t we learned not to take chances with illness and Time Travel?” Lucy grimaces, glancing down at her socked feet. “Besides, your expenses are covered.” A fact _Flynn_ is well aware of, having thrown out all perfectly usable button-downs acquired on missions, which she learned, rather unhappily, while patching up his bullet wound after Chinatown. “What do you have to lose?”

“Nothing.” She says it, matter of fact, and Flynn catches her eye. Though she isn’t privy, communication is clear. If she were an outsider, it might be fascinating.

“Is there something else I should know about?”

“No.” Lucy sighs. “And I agree.”

“Good,” she says, lightly praising. 

Her skin is pricked and a drop of blood placed in the handheld machine. They wait. Lucy drinks her tea, and Flynn shifts in place. Denise takes her time putting the supplies away, seeing that it holds acquit bandages. She steels a glance at Lucy.

Her breathing, her heart rhythm under Denise’s stethoscope didn’t suggest a catastrophe and her symptoms, albeit sudden, _do_ match a cold, but Denise isn’t an optimist.

And being this close? She doesn’t look healthy. Pale skin— paler then usual? she thinks so— and thin fingers. 

She looks depleted, exhausted. A cold wouldn't do all that. And Denise knows the war is taking it’s toll on all of them but—

The machine beeps and it’s easier to breath. For Denise, Lucy’s still sniffly. She explains the Rhinovirus diagnosis, load enough for Flynn to hear, suddenly appreciative for all the research she did on new and old viruses during and after Lucy’s post-Salem infection.

Despite her relief, there’s more. “In general, are you okay? Is there something I should be doing?” she asks, barely above a whisper in the futile hope Flynn won’t hear and decide now’s an opportunity to complain. “Or anything you’d like— or need— to tell me?”

Lucy swallows, saying nothing. Denise gives her time and a reassuring look. But as predicted, Flynn waltzes right up, behind her and to the left. But he says nothing, and Denise breaks her apparent focus. He’s looking at Lucy, eyebrows raised, until Lucy’s resolve breaks, vulnerable and displeased. Denise gets the distinct impression of permission being reluctantly giving.

And sure enough, Flynn turns to her. "Kind of difficult to eat and drink enough with our” —he gestures vaguely— “life style.”

She looks at Lucy, who averts her eyes, ashamed, or simply uncomfortable. 

Oh, sweetheart. 

She turns back to Flynn. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, you’re wondering why she looks so sick?“ Resent and righteous indignation line his tone. “Why do you think?”

The war has taken it’s toll on all of them. He’d know. But... no one’s ever prepared Lucy, or Rufus, or her, or anyone, on how to handle the basic necessities when it comes to _Time Travel._ She had not— how much of this is her fault?

Enough, she thinks, and does not close her eyes, does not back down, to the recent, now painful memories of them running out of food during two unexpected Rittenhouse silences. She’d never thought about how the mission reports rarely mentioned any sort of meal. But wouldn’t they compensate during downtime?

“Flynn, go make her something to eat.” 

Flynn follows her order for the second time today, exiting with a single nod. 

“Is that accurate?” she asks softly, motherly.

Lucy leans against the wall, staring straight ahead and unconsciously running her fingers over the rim of her mug. “It’s just hard,” she finally chokes out. “I don’t _feel_ hungry.”

“Lucy, I’m not blaming you.”

Lucy looks at her, genuinely surprised, and Denise’s heart hurts. She’s so glad Carol Preston is dead. 

Denise touches her shoulder, giving her an opportunity to say no or pull away. She doesn’t, and Denise hugs her, rubbing circles into her back until the tension melts away, and Lucy’s close to tears, gently shaking. “I’m sorry I’m not better at this.”

“Not your fault.” Denise sighs, and shifts Lucy, the angle and weight becoming uncomfortable. They end up laying down, Lucy in a slight curl around her. A year or two ago, this would have been so inconceivable.

“You’re wrong about that.” Lucy stills. “I have responsibilities to everyone here. One of them is making sure to order enough food.” In her life, she’s periodically evaluated her responsibility to other people. It’s necessary for a healthy marriage and work-life balance. But all the important lines are blurred now. Maybe she is objectively too invested. That would be something to work out with a therapist, but that’s another thing they can’t risk. “I’m sorry for the times I’ve felled you all. But how about we figure out the food situation when you’re feeling better?”

Lucy sits up, nodding, the moment over. As Denise gets up to leave, she can tell somethings have been left unsaid. But this has been productive in a way she didn’t know was needed, and she hopes Lucy will feel safe enough come to her in the future. She hopes they all do. “Feel better soon.”

Flynn is in the hallway, holding a plate with assorted snacks, including toast and yogurt. It is still morning, isn’t it? He’s standing like he’s waited a few minutes. Perhaps some dormant social grace kicking in.

She starts to pass him, stops and turns around. “Just so I have the full picture,” he blinks, “did she come to you or the other way around?”

He’s silent, studying, distrustful. But Denise is unwavering. “I heard her coughing.” His tongue flicks out unconsciously. “She asked to stay with me." 

Satisfied, she nods. He steps toward his room. "I’m glad you two have each other.”

The admission surprises her too. But Flynn is completely dumbstruck, hand frozen on the doorknob. 

She turns her back to him, and walks away with a smile. The rare times she knows her loved ones are safe should be appreciated and cherished.

-

As with the door, Flynn shuts out all thought about what just happened. Lucy deserves his full attention. Especially since she’s laying in bed on her side, facing the well, and she hasn’t acknowledged—

Christopher was in here until two minutes ago. Would _she_ have _any_ reason— 

He sets the plate down non too gently. She flinches, he relaxes; clears his throat. “Feeling worse?” She looks worse.

“I’m so tired.” Nevertheless, she drags herself upright. “I shouldn’t complain though.”

"No, you should.” He moves the chair so it faces her, minding her personal space. She watches. He hands over her breakfast. “It sucks.”

She doesn’t reply, and turns her attention to the food, almost unsure of what to do. He looks at a book with little intention of actually reading it.

Toast, cheese, yogurt, and lunch meet. All that's missing is fruit— they had none, and those little kid vitamins, and it'd be what he'd feed Iris when she was fussy. ‘It shouldn’t be a battle,’ Lorena had said, ‘she likes options.’

Lucy eats, he counts the number of paragraphs on the page and spoils himself.

On her own, she doesn’t eat enough. When he’s offered to bring her something, she declined all but once. A few times— after missions or when she was working late— he didn’t ask, just set the food in front of her, and she finished what was given. He should start doing that more often. 

When she starts using the yogurt as a dipping sauce for the toast, he gets bolder. “You talked about the access problem?”

“She said we’d figure something out, I think that meant all of us.” Flynn vividly pictures a suggestion box.

“Good.” She seems a little better already. “I can, ah, try and help you with the other things that can’t possibly be good for your immune system.” She gives him a questioning look. “The excessive drinking,” he clarifies. "And you know you're always welcome to sleep in here, if it helps you to do that."

She nods slowly. "I can’t make any promises.”

“I know.”

“— but I’ll think about coming to you instead, next time."

“Anytime.”

She isn’t drinking as much as she was. But the fact that she’s no longer drowning in grief, and still drinks herself to sleep many nights isn’t something to ignore. More and more often, she comes without the bottle when they visit at night, though. 

Lucy stares down at her food, the conversion having delayed her eating. Flynn regrets his timing.

“Here.” She holds out the second piece of her toast. “You forgot to eat this morning.”

He smiles despite himself, almost chuckles. “Fair enough.”


End file.
